


Escape Plan

by jessikast



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: BAMF Martin Whitley, Gen, He's a serial killing doctor, Murder, Post 1x10 Silent Night, Protective Instincts, Rescue, Surgery Gone Wrong, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessikast/pseuds/jessikast
Summary: Martin Whitley rises to the occasion when Jessica lets him know their son has been kidnapped.He is a good father. He's going to look after his boy.Of course Martin had an escape plan. Psychatric hospitals were secure, but everything had its weak point. Buildings, systems, the human psyche, the human body. A breaking point, a point where someone who was brilliant and systematic and had ample time could test boundaries, routines and people and…make a plan. Just in case.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 101
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Escape Plan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bottomfeeder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bottomfeeder/gifts).



Of course Martin had an escape plan. Psychatric hospitals were secure, but _everything_ had its weak point. Buildings, systems, the human psyche, the human _body_. A breaking point, a point where someone who was brilliant and systematic and had ample _time_ could test boundaries, routines and people and…make a plan. Just in case.

The problem was – and the reason that Martin hadn’t utilised his plan – was that it was…messy. Irreversible. Martin’s situation was hardly _ideal_ , but it was comfortable. He had access to little luxuries, to his books, to private clients who were desperate enough to consult a convicted serial killer to fix their cardiac issues…it was really rather delicious.

Over the years – the long, _long_ years – the Plan had been refined. Martin hoped that it would eventually be a plan that resulted in his freedom – proper freedom, reinstated in comfortable society, with his medical practice restored and children by his side. But for now, the Plan was a last resort. It was brutal, _inelegant_ , and there was no way to get out with committing crimes that would guarantee law enforcement’s determination to lock him up – in jail – for a very, very long time.

The FBI had kept Malcolm’s kidnapping from the news. Martin didn’t learn of it until a full 72 hours had passed. He would have dismissed it as a tactic to get information on Paul Lazar if it weren’t for the fact that he didn’t learn of it from a newspaper, or even some FBI profiler type ( _none_ as brilliant as his son) coming to interview him.

It was Jessica. _His_ Jessica, beautiful and broken and despising him down to her bones – and that was fine, Martin could work with that. (The oppose of love wasn’t hate, it was indifference, and _god_ he loved that she still hated him.) She had bullied her way through the administration and bureaucracy and guards to stand behind his chair.

“Martin-“ she started, and he smirked to himself, ready to spin his chair and smile at her. Helpful, friendly. He wondered what she would be wearing – it was winter, but she couldn’t resist those high heels, no matter how icy the pavements; maybe she would indulge in a fur-collared coat?

Martin prided himself on his ability to read people, to be one step ahead. He was very rarely surprised.

Jessica was indeed wearing one of her cashmere coats, but it was over jeans and sneakers. Her hair was roughly pulled into a ponytail, unwashed, and her face was bare of make-up. She had been crying.

The grin fell off Martin’s face. “The children-“

Jessica drew in a sharp breath and visibly steeled herself. “It’s Malcolm. That…that _associate_ -“ She spat out the word. “-of yours, he kidnapped Malcolm. Three nights ago. The FBI aren’t doing _anything_. Gil says his hands are tied, it’s someone else’s investigation, Ainsley’s just fucking _reporting_ on it, I’ve gone to everyone I can and no one is _helping_.”

Martin gripped the armrests of his chair. He distantly noticed that his knuckles were turning white, his forearms trembling, but his voice was calm. Steady. Surgeons had to have good nerves. “Jessica, my dear, that’s…terribly distressing news.”

Jessica frowned at him, started to open her mouth, then stopped. She looked at him for a moment. “Of course. How thoughtless of me to bring you news like that when there’s…nothing you can do.”

Martin quirked a small smile at her. He nodded, keeping eye contact with Jessica. She shivered, but nodded slowly in return. Her shoulders relaxed a little.

After she left, Martin closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He thought for a moment of his notebooks, his patients, his routine – but it wasn’t hesitation, it was a mental farewell. His path was already chosen – no matter the consequences for him. Jessica would do anything for their children – including coming to see him. Truly, could he do any less? He was, after all, a _good father_.

With a sigh, he leaned forward to pull out the single scalpel blade he’d secreted in the spine of a notebook. “Oh, Wilson?” he called out for his guard.

Shame, he liked Wilson.

The escape was faster than Martin expected. Evening shift meant not too many people to get through, and no one expected a man who had lived in a single room for twenty years to be as fast as he was. Calisthenics, that was the idea! No need for standards to slip. He was just vaguely annoyed at how _brutal_ it all was. It was such a waste – ending lives so quickly (and it _was_ quick, he knew exactly where to sever arteries, tendons, airways). There was always so _much_ to be learned from careful and systematic observation – the scientific method. 

He had lost the scalpel halfway through – it had stuck in a vertebrae, the last beefy orderly on the locked wards. His neck was so thick, it was like butchering a hog – not that Martin had done anything like that since his early days of biology classes at medical school. His hand had slipped on the handle of the scalpel, slick with blood, and had been halfway into the orderly’s neck anyway. Martin had abandoned the blade and just…yanked on the half-exposed trachea instead. The orderly had abruptly stopped bleeding to death and choked instead – and more importantly, lost the ability to call for help.

It was a curiously visceral experience, and Martin half-thought to himself that it was worth exploring further. He’d always worked with the tools of his profession – scalpels, forceps, bone saws, paralytics, toxins and drugs – but he hadn’t really gotten his _hands_ dirty. He wondered what it would be like to conduct surgery fully utilising his hands. Sensitive fingers of a surgeon, that’s what people always said, wasn’t it? He thought about just _digging_ into skin, letting his fingers slip into an incision on someone’s torso, brushing their beating heart with his fingers, gripping and pulling…

It was a shame about that little tremor Malcolm had developed in his hands. Martin wondered if it would steady if Malcolm had something to properly focus on.

Martin washed the blood off and stole clean scrubs and an abandoned hoodie before he slipped out of the secure psychiatric unit into the hospital. Behind him he could distantly hear his fellow residents alternatively hollering or laughing or crying, depending on their nature. There were no staff left to attend to them.

The world outside was louder and brighter than Martin remembered, and he felt it whirling around him. A stolen wallet with stolen cash in his pocket, he managed to hail a taxi and collapsed into the back of it.

He knew where John – Paul, whatever he was calling himself these days – would be. This was about him. John wouldn’t expect Martin to be there, but if his had the Surgeon’s son, he would only take him to a place belonging to the Surgeon.

An abandoned animal testing centre. Repulsive place – Martin actually felt quite strongly about animal testing. He hadn’t been joking when he’d told Malcolm he was a vegan, and besides, animal testing gave such _inexact_ data, when it was far more accurate to test on people. Not that Martin had ever… _worked_ there, but it had been a useful-enough place to meet John, his clean-up man.

Martin didn’t think John knew what he was going to do himself. John didn’t like to get his hands dirty, preferred to kill sinners at a distance. Just because he wasn’t actively harming Malcolm didn’t excuse him in Martin’s eyes, though. Martin found them in a storage lab, Malcolm half-conscious and curled up in an _animal cage_ , far too small for him. John was packing back and forth, hunting knife in one hand, bible in the other.

Malcolm – bless him, clever boy! – was trying to talk John around. Mumbling, half-lucid, trying to _empathise_ wit him. Martin felt like telling him it was a lost cause – whatever part of John was supposed to feel empathy had long-since withered away.

Martin slipped into the back of the room, quietly. He didn’t have any weapons, but that didn’t matter in a place like this – old cupboards hung half-open, boxes of restraints and expired tranquilizers spilling out.

Malcolm saw him first, and his vague litany faltered. Martin thought it was all worth it when he saw something in Malcolm’s eyes he hadn’t seen in more than twenty years – _relief_. The unthinking trust of a child in their parent. _You’re here, I’m safe now._

John was turning to look at whatever had caught Malcolm’s attention when Martin struck. John was slow, slower than he should have been – the adrenalin of kidnapping had worn off, sleep deprivation catching up with him, and Martin easily took his knife, snatching it then dropping beneath John’s swinging arm to draw the knife quickly across the tendon behind his knee. John roared and dropped, clutching the wound and unable to stand.

Martin pulled a half-open box off a shelf, and was happily surprised. Ketamine! Oh, his favourite. The syringes at the back of the shelf were half rusted but no matter, they’d do the job. He grabbed a vial – maybe two, to be safe – and ignoring John’s groans, slid the blunt needle into his forearm.

Getting Malcolm out took a moment longer. The cage was padlocked but the hinges weak and old. Martin pulled Malcolm out, frowning in concern. He was cold, dehydrated, one pupil blown and not responding to light – oh dear, dear, dear, John was going to _pay_ for this. First things first – as a father, and a medical professional (stripped registration or not) – Martin wrapped Malcolm in a musty blanket, brought him a mug of water, and settled him on the dusty sofa in the corner of the room.

“Dad, we’ve…we’ve got to call Gil. The FBI. We’ve…that’s the Junk Yard Killer.”

Martin smiled proudly. Mind on the job – professional! “Don’t worry, son. You just rest here a moment. I’ll take care of it.”

Malcolm obediently lay his head down, but watched his father through half-closed eyes. “Are you going to kill him?” he asked, sounding lucid for a moment. Not…accusingly though, just curious.

Martin turned back from his perusal of a drawer of testing implements. He sighed thoughtfully and gave his attention to his son. That’s what a good parent does – attention and treating their child’s questions seriously.

“He’s a very bad man, Malcolm. He hurt you. I need to make sure he doesn’t do it again.”

Malcolm tried to laugh but it turned into a dry cough. “He hurt lots of people, Dad. That’s why the police-“

Martin tutted. “Oh, the _police_. No, I’m sure they’ll be here soon enough. I can’t stay, you see, I can’t make sure that John doesn’t hurt you again if they just take him away. Or what about your sister? Or even, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, your mother? No, it’s better this way. Trust me.”

Under the warmth of the blanket, Malcolm was starting to relax. His eyes drifted shut, opened, then closed again. “Okay, Daddy.”

Martin watched his son fall asleep, and turned back to the drawer, picking out some tools. It was true what he’d told Malcolm, the police would be following his trail here soon enough and he would need to be on his way to avoid them, but – that was no excuse for not making sure the job was not done well.

He pulled John’s unconscious body straight on the floor, and picket up a pair of clothing scissors. He cut though John’s shirt, then paused before setting the point of the scissors against John’s skin. Over the wet snick of the blades he started to hum. Malcolm always slept best when he heard this lullaby. He was looking after his boy.


End file.
